


This is What I Want from You

by questionsleftunanswered



Series: It's Important to Me [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsleftunanswered/pseuds/questionsleftunanswered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are roped into spending more time than expected at Sherlock's childhood home. As things turn out, neither of them mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is What I Want from You

Sherlock’s childhood bedroom was much as John anticipated. There were stacks of medical journals and obscure reports that only those in that specific field could read and understand. There were notebooks stacked in the corners that had handwritten scribbles all along both sides and in the margins. There were no posters from pop culture, nor any magazines depicting rugby on the cover. Rather, Sherlock’s childhood seemed to be much that same as his adulthood: intellectual over social.

John shucked off his suit and rummaged in a few drawers, withdrawing a plain grey t-shirt and navy sweat pants. Sherlock had occupied the bathroom second, so John was left sitting in the large bed by himself.  It was the center of the large room, and faced a television identical to the one downstairs.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom wearing maroon, silk pyjamas that had an intertwined “SH” on the left breast.

“I think your jim-jams, Sherlock,” John said. He could tell Sherlock was less than pleased about staying the night and had no intention of asking him why he didn’t wear them at home.

“They’re Sherrinford’s,” Sherlock replied, “I never wore them, but considering our present circumstances, I have no other choice.”

“You could sleep in nothing, or wear one of those t-shirts you have,” John pointed towards the drawer where he fetched his pyjamas.

“I don’t wear any of those clothes. They itch.” Sherlock argued.

“They feel fine to me.”

“You are used to itchy clothing.”

“Fine, can you just please come to bed, I’m rather tired.”

“Sure.” Sherlock shed his clothes and stood naked beside the bed, “I prefer nothing anyway.”

He crawled in to join John and curled himself impossibly around the shorter man.

“John, make it stop,” Sherlock whined, nuzzling against John’s chest.

“Make what stop?” John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s curls, content in the familiar scent that was unmistakably Sherlock’s.

“Everything, please make everything stop,” Sherlock clutched to John like he was falling from reality.

John just held him back, accustomed to the sudden change in Sherlock’s demeanor.

“What are you thinking?”

“Radon, Rhenium, Rhodium, Rubidium, Ruthenium, Rutherfordium, Samarium, Scandium, Seaborgium, Selenium, Silicon, Silver, Sodium, Strontium.”

“Tantalum, Technetium, Tellurium, Terbium, Thallium, Thorium, Thulium, Tin.”

“You forgot Sulfur.” Sherlock pointed out. John could feel his smile against his chest. John had memorized the periodic table because it was an easy fall back when Sherlock wanted to calm down. 

“Terribly sorry, lovely.” John chuckled.

After a few minutes he asked, “Are you feeling a bit better?”

“No.”

“What can I do?” John hated when Sherlock got lost in his own mind. Not only because it hurt him, but also because it always led to a fight.

“Kiss me,” Sherlock tilted his head up to face John, every muscle in his neck stretched taut.

John smiled, ducked his head, and kissed Sherlock lovingly, in no hurry to go further.

Sherlock pressed harder against John, insistent. John gently coaxed Sherlock’s lips apart and swept his tongue over Sherlock’s. Sherlock slid up and instinctively wrapped his arms around John’s neck trying to pull him closer.

“Sherlock, love, not here. Not in your room, or even this house,” John said. He looked down at Sherlock, the other man’s eyes were adverted. “Do you see what I mean?”

“You don’t want to impose yourself upon my supposed fond memories associated with this house, specifically this bedroom.”

“Yes. This room, this house, they have to hold happy memories. Memories that I don't belong in.”

“John, I had a horrible, lonely childhood,” Sherlock said. John was slightly taken aback at the frank statement.

Sherlock shifted so that he was straddling John, his arms still around the shorter man’s neck.

“It couldn’t have been all bad,” John offered. 

“Sherrinford was always popular and well known. Mycroft was always brilliant and able to manipulate people to him. Violet had every boy chasing her and was every teachers’ favorite just because she’s smart. I never fit in. I was always ‘the other Holmes boy’.”

John raised one hand, cupping Sherlock’s cheek, “I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“Why?”

“Because you deserve more. You deserve everything.”

Sherlock gave a small smile and leaned down to kiss John again. Immediately it changed. Sherlock wasn’t just kissing John out of comfort or boredom. He was kissing with purpose, insistent and needy.

Sherlock started rocking his hips back and forth above John, his cock quickly hardening.

John began to protest again, but Sherlock quickly cut him off, “No. I want this.”

John fell silent, giving in. Sherlock smiled and began to pull off John's t-shirt; gently sucking on the exposed skin. Tossing it aside, Sherlock slid his hand down to cup John over his pants. He slowly kneaded and teased John to hardness. Sherlock, already naked himself, drew the covers over himself and John to block out the chill of the room. He eased John’s pants under his arse, just enough to free his erection.

John gasped as Sherlock took him all the way in; the head of John’s cock pressing against the back of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock moaned wantonly around John’s length. The vibrations shot through John like lightning.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John said, trying to keep his voice low; all too aware of the fact that Sherrinford’s room was just next door.

Sherlock ignored him and inhaled deeply through his nose, keeping his mouth working on John.

Sherlock released him with a soft pop. “John, please tell me you brought lube. There is none in this room.”

“Sherlock, I wasn’t exactly planning on shagging you in your Mum’s house when we left tonight. No, I don’t have anything.”

“Fine, spit it is.”

Sherlock sucked one finger into his mouth and turned around on top of John, giving the other man a perfect view of Sherlock’s arse. Knowing how much John loved this, Sherlock eased one finger inside himself. John watched closely, biting his lip.

“I want to fuck you so badly.” John said, sitting up. “You’re mine,” the last practically a growl. John raised his hand and brought it down harshly on Sherlock’s left cheek. Sherlock moaned at the contact, easing another finger inside himself. He began rocking back.

John took Sherlock’s hand from his arse and replaced it with his mouth. Flicking his tongue inside and along the rim of Sherlock’s puckered hole. John worked and opened Sherlock, eliciting more moans in that deep vibrato.

“God, John, get on with it,” Sherlock said reaching down to grasp his length. John swatted his hand away.

“I don’t want you to come yet, Sherlock. I want you to come just from me being buried inside you, fucking you until nothing matters to you except how badly you need my cock in your arse.”

“Yes. Anything. All yours, please just get on with it.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John teased, “You have to ask for it.”

“Please fuck me.”

John kneeled and brought Sherlock’s arse to him. Sherlock let out a distinct humph as he was jerked back against John’s groin.

John eased the head inside Sherlock, pushing past the initial resistance. They moaned in unison.

“Hard, John. Take me hard.” Sherlock curved his head back to look at John over his shoulder.

John brought a hand down on Sherlock’s arse again, “You’re such a little cockslut. All you want is to be fucked. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, John. I always want to be fucked.”

John sank in another few inches, still careful to not hurt Sherlock because the way was still rough with only spit.

“Who do you belong to, Sherlock?”

“Y-nngghh,” Sherlock forced out. John had sheathed himself entirely inside the taller, younger man. He began pulling out slowly, not waiting for Sherlock to adjust to his size.

“John. You. Only you.,” Sherlock was rocking back on John’s cock, fucking himself on it with abandon.

It wasn’t long until they were straining and painfully hard; aching and leaking.

“Come for me, Sherlock,” John pressed kisses and bites into the heated dip between Sherlock’s shoulder-blade; the deeply reddened marks standing out against the alabaster of Sherlock’s skin.

John reaching one hand around and began pumping Sherlock’s cock with precise, practiced strokes.

Sherlock clenched around John as he came, his come hitting the sheets and then dribbling over John’s hand. John milked Sherlock until he was completely dry.

He brought his hand to his mouth and tasted. He came deep inside Sherlock with the taste of Sherlock’s come filling his mouth.

After they had both calmed down and washed up as much as they could, Sherlock and John lay in a tangled heap of limbs, sheets, and sweat.

John nuzzled his head against Sherlock’s hair and received a grumble against his chest.

This was his favourite part. John knew it was sentimental and that Sherlock would hate it if he voiced his thoughts, but John loved sitting in the middle of the night with Sherlock wrapped in his arms. He loved how Sherlock changed after a shag and how much more relaxed he became. It was peaceful in a way that John would always appreciate.

John pressed his lips into the sweat-dampened curls and mumbled, “Do you think Sherrinford heard?”

“Undoubtedly. He has the indecency to bring it up as well. Probably at breakfast.”

“Fantastic,” John said sarcastically, “We’ll be having eggs or something and suddenly our romp in your childhood bed with be the topic of conversation.”

“That certainly appears to be the direction of the morning. Though I do know Mycroft will do his best to deter the subject. Violet will probably was to know every detail. Not because of some interest, though, for medical purposes. She’s always very interested in anything medical.”

“What exactly does she do?”

“Everything. She was a professor for a few years. Then she went and got her Ph.D. in Anatomy and Cell Biology. I believe she is currently working on another Ph.D. in Neuroscience.”

“Wait, when did she start university?”

“Around her sixteenth birthday I believe. She always did want to prove herself.”

“Why didn’t you jump right into university? I’m sure you were smart enough.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“There has to be more to it than simply not wanting to.”

“Mycroft didn’t.”

“That’s your reason? You can’t stand Mycroft.”

“Believe it or not, John, when we were younger we were very much the same as other siblings. Mycroft looked up to Sherrinford, I looked up to Mycroft, and Violet wanted us all to bugger off so she could prove that she was the smartest.”

John sat in silence for a few seconds trying to picture a younger Sherlock idolizing his older brother. “It makes sense,” he said.

“I know it does.”

They spent the rest of the night silent, eventually falling asleep.

***

KNOCK! KNOCK!

There was a loud pounding on the door that was followed by, “Get your arses up lover-boys! I’ve got breakfast ready and you two aren’t going to get any of the beans if you stay in shagging each other all morning.”

John cracked his eyes open, light was streaming in from the impossibly large window to his right. Sherlock was still lying in his arms, his chin propped up on one hand, watching John wake up.

“You were right,” John mumbled.

“About the talk of shagging at breakfast? Of course I was right.”

“Good morning, darling,” John gave Sherlock a quick kiss, avoiding his morning breath.

Sherlock smiled and rolled out of bed, stretched, and then turned for the bathroom.

John watched as he walked away, knowing Sherlock wanted him to watch. It was difficult not to, though. Sherlock had a fine arse.

John waited a few minutes before getting up. He didn’t bother with getting dressed just yet. He padded into the bathroom just as Sherlock was stepping out of the shower. His hair was matted down against his head, a few stray curls sticking out at odd angles. There was the faintest hint of steam and the bathroom was filled with the subtle musk of Sherlock’s soap.

John smiled and began to brush his teeth. Sherlock towelled off his hair and then shook his head like a dog; spraying droplets on the mirror and John.

“Oi! Waths that necessithary?” John said, still brushing his teeth.

“Considerably,” Sherlock said. He stepped up and settled his hands on John’s hips, meeting his eyes in the mirror. He pressed feather light kisses into the hollow of John’s neck, leaning back as John spit into the sink.

“Are we going home today?”

“Doubtful. Mother had probably already had clothing for us bought or brought out.”

“How long is she expecting us to say?”

“At least the weekend.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to come?”

“Yes, and the fact that the rest of my family is here and they are less than ideal.”

“I like them. They’re all brilliant,” John smiled, “though not as much as you, of course.” He quickly corrected at Sherlock small frown.

Sherlock finished drying off and tossed the towel to the floor. He walked out and John could hear the snap of his bureau. He changed his mind and stepped into the shower; turning on the water and feeling his muscles loosen under the hot water.

He washed and stepped out, quickly drying and emerging from the bathroom.

Sherlock was still standing in front of his bureau; debating two different suits that looked identical to John.

John stepped up and circled one arm around Sherlock’s slim waist. “Reached an impasse?”

“I don’t know what one to wear. Mother is always so particular about appearance.”

Though John was loathe to ask, he said, “What is the difference between the two?”

Sherlock’s scoff was palpable, “For starters the left is blue and the right is black. The black is single breasted Dolce and Gabana and the blue is double breasted Armani. The cut is slightly longer on the Armani, but the Dolce and Gabana has sleeves better suited for my arms and is fitted a slight tighter.”

John had no idea why that was all so important. To him, they just looked like two really expensive suits. He did notice that one was blue and the other black after Sherlock had mentioned it.

“What do you think? And then,” Sherlock said, reaching further into the bureau, “What shirt to go.”

John grabbed a powder blue button down shirt and the black suit. He took them and set them on the bed, turning back to Sherlock.

“There,” he said, “Problem solved.”

Sherlock smiled, “Whatever you want.” He hung the other clothing back up and turned to the suit on the bed. With a passing smirk to John, he dropped the towel. Standing there wearing nothing but a knowing smirk, John though that Sherlock had never been quite so beautiful.

“Like what you see?” Sherlock asked coyly.

“You know I do,” John replied. He walked over to his suitcase that had apparently been brought over night and pulled out a plain knit chord jumper and trousers. He smirked, knowing Sherlock preferred him without pants.

Sherlock quickly dressed in his suit, also with no pants on, and returned to John’s side. They walked into the kitchen for breakfast together.

“So I heard you two fucking last night,” Sherrinford said. Naturally this was the first thing out of his mouth. Mycroft shot him a venomous look and Sherrinford only winked.

John and Sherlock pointedly ignored the comment and heaped their plates with breakfast; just eggs for Sherlock and toast and jam for John.

“So does my baby brother like it rough?” Sherrinford pursued.  Mycroft gave a disgusted grunt. Violet walked into the room just in time to hear Sherrinford's inquiry. 

“What little brother do you mean? Because I have it on fine authority that Mycroft does, in fact, like it rough,” Violet smiled pleasantly and took a scoop of eggs.

Mycroft was struggling to maintain his stoic composure, but it was quickly gaining cracks.

“No, Violet, Sherrinford was trying to be clever again. Shame it fell short,” Sherlock said, “It would be expected though, considering many things of his fall short.”

“Hey, hey there Sherlock. That was a bit below the belt don’t you think?” Sherrinford winked at his younger brother who was rather put off by the lack of offense that his joke caused. Violet snorted into her bowl of cereal.

“Anyway, Johnny,” Sherrinford continued, “You never answered me. Does Sherlock like it rough or slow and sweet? I bet he’s a maniac in bed considering that he’s a maniac everywhere else. I bet he let’s you tie him up and fuck his mout-”

“Sherrinford! That is quite enough, thank you. We do not need that kind of talk at the breakfast table!” Mycroft was giving him a calm “I will end you” sort of glare.

John was silently thankful for the end of the topic, he was beginning to picture tying Sherlock up and fucking him in many different ways and it was starting to get to him. Sherlock noticed and his eyes grazed across John’s groin under the table; the slight raise obvious to his keen eye.

“John, do you care to see my horse?” Sherlock prompted.

“Of course. I didn’t know you had a horse,” John set his fork and napkin down.

They stood in unison and John offered a wave of goodbye to the rest of the table.  Sherlock led John across the grounds and back towards a large barn that John hadn’t noticed before. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges. John’s nostrils were filled with the scent that was unmistakably horse dung and hay.

There were two lines down the sides, each side had four stalls, and each stall contained a horse. Each grander and more muscled than the last, Sherlock led John down the corridor that separated the two sets. They reached the second to last on the right hand side. In the stall was a tall, proud, deep chocolate horse with a mane that matched that of Sherlock’s in colour. 

“He’s beautiful,” John said. He didn’t know much about horses, but he imagined that the horse, like everything else the Holmes family owned, was expensive and the best money could buy.

“You think? I’ve always enjoyed riding,” Sherlock offered one hand to the tall animal and began slowly petting its muzzle.

“Does he have a name?” John rested one hand on its neck, following the natural growth of hair.

“Of course he has a name, don’t be daft. It’s Galileo.”

“Galileo, it is surprisingly perfect.”

“I know it is. If it wasn’t I wouldn’t have given it to him.”

John then noticed the small plaque above the doorframe that read Galileo in elegant curving script, Sherlock’s script.

“Do you want to ride?” Sherlock asked, already setting his suit jacket up on the available hook and bringing down the saddle.

“You’re going to ride in Dolce and Gabana?” John asked incredulously.

“Certainly. I’ve ridden in suits plenty of times.”

John was glad he had opted for plain denim and a jumper. He nodded and Sherlock gave him a broad grin.

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re perfectly capable, but I doubt Mother would want you riding any of our other horses. Do you mind riding with me?” Sherlock asked.

“No problem. I’m usually rubbish on a horse anyway. Harry and I went out once a few weeks before I was deployed. It didn’t end well, though.”

Sherlock slung the saddle over Galileo’s back and patted his neck. He adjusted the buckles so that the saddle sat properly.

Sherlock stepped up on a stool and brought one leg up, landing easily on Galileo. The horse didn’t move an inch, clearly comfortable with Sherlock astride him.

“C’mon, John. Up you come,” Sherlock gestured to the stool and then offered his hand.

John tried to imitate Sherlock. He successfully got up on Galileo, but with considerable less grace than Sherlock had managed. He shifted so that he was comfortable and laced his arms around Sherlock’s middle.

“Ready then,” John said.

“Perfectly,” was his only warning before they were out of the stables and easing into a full gallop towards a brilliantly open area behind the mansion.

John pressed instinctively closer to Sherlock, feeling the taller man’s chuckle against his own chest.

Galileo pressed on until the house looked like nothing but a speck in the distance. Then they slowed to a walk and just enjoyed the silence and comfort of it all.

“John, I know Sherrinford’s behaviour is deplorable,” Sherlock said.

John though it was almost a real apology.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. I don’t really mind,” John rested his head against Sherlock’s back and breathed in the faint smell of sweat that lingered on his skin from the ride.

“John, may I ask you something?” Sherlock asked, nerves hinted in his voice.

“You will anyway, I don’t really see the point in my answering,” John said, truthfully and not intending for it to hurt.

Sherlock hid his hurt well.

“I would like for you to give me an answer, though.”

“Yes, Sherlock, yu can ask me anything you want and I will answer it.”

“Do you love me?”

John almost laughed, “Of course I love you. I’ve told you every day for two years that I love you just so you do not get some mad idea about me not loving you.”

“But you mean it. I mean you really mean it.”

“Yes, I really mean it.”

John was just wondering what Sherlock was getting at when Sherlock asked, “John will you marry me?”

John nearly fell off Galileo. That was unexpected.

“What? Why would you ask that?” John replied, noting in his head that that was probably the exact wrong this to blurt out after being proposed to.

Sherlock seemed affronted, “Well if you don’t want to you can just say so.” He wheeled Galileo around and broke out into a canter back towards the barn.

“Wait! Sherlock stop, stop!” John cried out.

Sherlock slowed them to a walk, but didn’t say anything to John.

“Are you serious about wanting to marry me?”

“Of course I am. That was another idiotic question.”

John pretended he didn’t hear the insult and just though for a bit. Life forever with Sherlock. It could be worse, and John couldn’t imagine anything better. He gave it a moment of thought before grinning like a fool against Sherlock’s back.

“Of course I’ll marry you, you bloody idiot.” John said.

Sherlock stopped Galileo completely and craned his neck back to get a glimpse of John.

“Do you mean that?” he asked.

“Of course I mean it.”

“Do you really mean it?”

“Yes, Sherlock! Yes, I, John Watson, will marry you.”

Galileo was off at a sprint again. They were still headed towards the house, but this time it was for a different purpose.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know Violet and Enola Holmes are supposed to be the same person, but I thought Enola was better as a mother's name.
> 
> Sherrinford, Violet, and Enola are all headcanon names and not my own. Mycroft is the only ACD canon sibling of Sherlock's.


End file.
